


Manhunt

by alittlebitofphanisallineed



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlebitofphanisallineed/pseuds/alittlebitofphanisallineed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a poem by Simon Armitage called Manhunt</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manhunt

"After the first phase,  
after passionate nights and intimate days,"

breathy moans and whispers were released from his mouth as my hands and lips trailed over his skin, leaving wet kisses and bite marks, each new piece of sensitive skin marked with a blossoming bruise that spread like a flower only to be discovered later on with a smile directed at the mirror.

His hands clenched in bed sheets, head tipped backwards, whispering my name followed by breathy pleads and silent screams that would break the silence of the room as I took him apart with gentle touches before rebuilding him with gentler caresses as he came down from his soaring high.

"only then would he let me trace  
the frozen river that ran through his face,"

As we lay next to each other, fingers laced together, tears would roll down his face, leak into the bed sheets and fall onto my chest. I would gently run my fingers through his hair, the soothing touch bringing another wave of emotion but for another reason, the feel of nostalgia and safety, an unfamiliar but welcome sensation, brought only by my presence.

"only then would he let be explore  
the blown hinge of his lower jaw,  
and handle and hold  
the damaged, porcelain collar-bone  
and mind and attend the fractured rudder of shoulder-blade,  
and finger and thumb the parachute silk of his punctured lung."

Multiple steps taken by fast moving legs as our out of breath laughs filled the apartment, we chased each other through rooms and up and down stairs, cares forgotten until he collapsed gracelessly onto the couch, holding a hand to his chest as it heaved, his lungs screaming for air, unused to the over exertion.

I knelt next to him, placing my hand over the one that laid over his heart. I looked up into his eyes, a gentle colour, shattered by sadness. Emotion overcame me and I brought up my hand to caress the scarred texture of his face. I felt him stiffen and watched as his lids closed over the beautiful blue. After a moment he leaned into my touch and tears pricked at my eyes as another barrier was broken.

My hand trailed down his face to his chest, and through the fabric of his t-shirt, I traced over the colour bone that had been shattered, the skin still tender but my touch was light, I allowed my hands to flow over the perfect porcelain, hidden by a simple blue shirt. I ran my fingers up to his shoulder and caressed his shoulder blade before falling down his arm to tangle my fingers in his.

My other hand that laid over his heart gently pushed his hand aside and flattened out against his chest, covering heart and lung that lay beneath the skin.

I watched as a tear fell down his face and a second later he was leaning into me, emotions swelling forth from the barriers he had quickly constructed which I had carefully removed.

"Only then could I bind the struts  
and climb the rungs of his broken ribs,  
and feel the hurt  
of his grazed heart"

The bruising was still evident across his chest, the sickening green colour swollen across the vast majority of his once perfect skin. On rare days I woke before him my fingers would lightly graze across the hurt that I knew still laid beneath his chest, a hurt he hid well, from fans, friends and family though I knew a simple breath could cause him agony.

Beneath the skin I could feel the pulse of a beating organ, once struggling to make a single rhythm, now pounding out a beat as if to say “I am here I am here” a rhythm I had come to love and listen for as I laid my fingers across his wrist, feeling the pulse that kept him alive.

"Skirting alone,  
only then could I picture the scan,  
the foetus of metal beneath his chest  
where the bullet had come to rest,"

I woke screaming from nightmares, remembering the endless amounts of blood coating my fingers as his dying body lay in my arms, his blue eyes dull and grey as I held him close. 

“I love you” he whispered with what I thought was his final breath.

I had clung on to him when they tried to remove him, I had never cried so hard, inconsolable until I was allowed to run to his side as he lay clammy in the hospital bed, wires and tube exiting from his skin making him seem unhuman but I knew that underneath that he was there, my Phil.

He would wake me up some nights, whispering gentle words to me as I clung to him desperately, not wanting to fail again, not again, I can’t loose him, ever.

"Then I widened the search,  
traced the scarring back to its source  
to a sweating, unexploded mine  
buried deep in his mind,  
around which every nerve in his body had tightened and closed."

The panic was the worst. The first week of endless screams, his voice cracking as he scrambled and thrashed against the wall trying to get away from the monsters that weren’t there that were in jail but were in his mind.

It took so long for me to be able to touch him, I wouldn’t know his triggers and he knew less than me, a simple hug around the waist would end up with three hours of panic attacks and apologies before we both calmed down.

But we learned and slowly, slowly we had a life like before. 

Then, and only then, did I come close. 

Some days, it would be mentioned on the news.

“The kidnap of well-known British vlogger and radio one presenter..”

Followed by a picture of the man. Men.

Next to me he would stiffen, I would turn towards him and hold out my arms and slowly he would crawl into them, his face in my chest and back to world. Silently I would turn off the TV and cradle him closer knowing that he would be blocking out the memories.

Slowly, slowly, things returned to normal. His, our, fans supported him. But even behind the camera smile I could see he was struggling. But each time it was a little less.

We were getting there. It just took a little time.

**Author's Note:**

> I read this poem in English and BAM this exploded across the page. might do it as a main story?


End file.
